Experimental Magics: Experimental Magics, #1

By Alex Evans

After centuries of absence, magic has reappeared, causing panic and controversy.

Professor Adrienne Imlay, raised in the decaying streets of the once magic city of Gandarah, hides both her magic gift and her knowledge of ancient artifacts. When her controversial research draws her into a web of intrigue, she meets a mad scientist whose dangerous magic machine is about to change the fate of the world.
Assisted by unlikely allies and armed with little more than a railway timetable, Adrienne sets out to stop him. But as the lines between magic and science blur, she discovers that both worlds operate by their own set of rules.

 

The most critical of all is: everything has a price.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernard Berry
• Release date: Jul 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201938888

Book preview

1- Dark News

People claim shamans have visions and premonitions. That’s a bunch of superstitions. When I stepped outside on that dark and frosty morning, I had no inkling of the flood of trouble about to pour on my head. Actually, I was rather pleased with myself: I had finished writing a new paper. I had passed it to my colleague, Nicephorus Vatel, to read it over before submitting it to the Thaumaturgical Review.

A little boy in rags crossed the street, avoiding the puddles of molten snow, and handed me an expensive-looking envelope. I eyed him with surprise: Are you sure this is for me?

He nodded silently. Well, with my freckles and auburn Gandaran hair, I was difficult to miss in the streets of Branes, even in poor light. I gave him a ronal and opened the envelope. Inside, was a little note in a slightly old-fashioned handwriting.

Dear Professor Imlay,

I wish to speak to you at your earliest convenience about a most important research project. Please reply a.s.a.p.

Yours,

Tahar Ruslan

Sending a letter that early, by a street urchin, to my home rather than to my lab was a bit unusual, but Ruslan was an unusual man, one of those modern entrepreneurs and inventors. He occasionally worked with our institution, and money was not a problem for him. A research project meant funding. I might finally get enough to pay for a new harmonizer. Things were looking rather good on this Monday morning, as I walked towards the omnibus.

I got out at Stone Lady Square. The lights of an airship were piercing the still dark sky and making golden reflections on the waves of the Dhor Hondo river. The baby moon was right above the skyline, while the mother had already disappeared. The air was smelling of burnt coal, horse manure, and freshly baked bread. Election placards covered the walls: the compass pointing the Way of the Heritage Party, the wolf head of the Founders Party, the hoe and hammer of the People’s Party, and the rising sun of the Progress Party. The latter had been in power for the last twenty years, but lately, had been marred by various scandals, so all bets were off for these elections. At that time, I did not have strong political views. I was still a naive researcher whose only interest was Science.

Only my field of study was not chemistry, biology, or physics but Power—magic. A form of energy that crossed through thousands of worlds over a millennial cycle. Forty years ago, it had reappeared in ours after having been away for four centuries. Like countless wizards, mages, and sorcerers before me, I had devoted my life to its study. But now, my laboratory was not in the heart of a cave, in the bowels of a dungeon, or on the top of a tower, but in a building of the University of Sciences. Nor did I wear a long robe embroidered with stars, but a lab coat with badly worn sleeves. We were in the age of logic, mechanics, and progress. No more superstitions and hazardous spells. We would study magic scientifically and put it to some practical use!

At least, that was our ambition. Over four centuries, most of the knowledge was lost. The few grimoires we had ever possessed had been methodically destroyed by the worshippers of the Way. We had to start from scratch. But every cloud had a silver lining: there were opportunities in this new domain, even for a woman, the daughter of immigrants without any contacts. At thirty-three, I was already a professor.

I turned into the Street of the Seven Virtues and passed in front of the fancy new Triskelian café, thinking about my current project: sequential measurements of the Power waves emitted by moonflowers. A male voice cut through my mental diagrams: Professor Imlay?

I blinked. Yes?

The man raised his bowler hat and smiled nervously. In the gaslight, he looked like a middle-aged office worker, with his typically Deshwan features: brown skin, jet-black hair, and slightly elongated eyes in a long face. I apologize if I startled you. I am Daron Jol. I work for the Rexal company. I was wondering if you could direct me to where I might find Doctor Vatel?

Well, in his lab, I suppose, although you will have to wait: the university building opens in only half an hour and he is often late.

I called at his house twice over the last two days, but to no avail. You do not have access to his records, by any chance?

I frowned. Nick was a bit of a rogue with a longstanding relationship with all the narcotic substances he could get his hands on. As a result, he had some unsavory acquaintances. But this man looked like a gentleman. His logbooks are usually in his lab. I suppose you can ask the Dean.

He looked embarrassed, then handed me a card. If you have some information, would you be so kind as to contact us? We will be very happy to contribute to your research. Um... have a good day, Professor.

He lifted his hat again and hurried away before I could ask any question. Frowning, I stepped through the university gates. The caretaker’s cat greeted me on its way home. I went to pick up my mail, and started checking it while walking towards my own lab. The wide, echoing corridor smelled of black soap and chemicals. Faint auras from magic samples were playing on the edge of my perception.

Among the various newspapers and prospectuses, there was a large envelope studded with the colorful stamps of the free city of Isria. At first, I thought it was some mistake. But no. It was addressed to me: Professor Adrienne Imlay, University of Sciences, Laboratory of Fundamental Magics, Street of the Seven Virtues 5, Branes in Deshwan. Inside was written in vernacular:

Dear Professor Imlay,

Your studies on Power’s temporal variations have caught our interest. You are invited to present them at the 7th International Congress of Experimental Magics. Your one-hour talk is scheduled for the 21st of the Seashell Great Moon at 2 p.m.

The most prestigious congress of our burgeoning magic community! It only took place every four years. And the 21st of the Seashell Moon... I converted to the Calendar of the Way... was just the day after the elections and a month away! It was short notice. One of their speakers must have withdrawn. But it was the first time my research had attracted their attention. I would not miss such an opportunity. I would have to work extra hard to get ready, but I would gain notoriety and maybe even sponsorships after that. Of course, my ideas were considered too bold by many of my colleagues. They would certainly try to ridicule me, but I had a great deal of practice with criticism, denigration, and questioning of all kinds. I had spent most of my life justifying my very existence.

Full of enthusiasm, I set about planning the next few weeks. I was already engaged in a series of delicate experiments for which I had to obtain an ounce of black lotus juice, a very rare substance, imported with great difficulty and great cost from Yartegia. It would lose its supernatural properties after a month. I could not put off these manipulations. Now, I also had to prepare my presentation for the congress—in vernacular, a language I could read, but hardly speak. It all meant working late at night and through the Martyrs’ feast days. I might even have to forfeit my visits to my friend Roxane.

I unlocked the door to my lab, a large room with a high ceiling, lit by two windows with a few cracked panes. A chipped bench divided it in two. The paint was peeling off, drafts crept in through many gaps, and the equipment was dated, but this was my home, much more so than the furnished room I rented in Mrs. Marras’ boarding house. I opened the cabinet, took the pot of moonflowers, and set it on the bench, still thinking.

The first thing to do at such short notice was to secure travel tickets.

At that point, the realization of what I was about to do hit me hard. Isria lay three thousand kilometers south of Branes. Between them spread the Plain, a vast stretch of wastelands, roamed by small bands of outlaws, terrible winds and not much else. Reaching Isria involved getting through or around this unwelcoming place. In addition, the city had quite a reputation: a place of trafficking, vices and fantasies, populated, according to the newspapers, by thugs and crooks ready to prey on unsuspecting travelers.

My euphoria vanished and a wave of panic rose in my throat, and I almost decided to decline the invitation. Since I had settled in Branes, I had never left the city. The only exception had been a conference in neighboring Dagher, which was already a whole enterprise. Since that country refused entry to unaccompanied women, I’d had to use the services of one of those paid companions whom you hired by the hour, the week, or the month. She’d cost me a fortune and had not stopped complaining about any sight that had come our way. Even the color of the steamcabs—a very ugly green, I admit—had deeply traumatized her. I hated traveling. My childhood journey from Gandarah was more than enough.

My thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the door. Ferdal, Rupert, and Isidore came in, smelling of tobacco and cheap cologne. Ferdal, our technician, was slender and bald with sparse whiskers. In spite of his humble station, he was usually delving into serious topics. On the contrary, Rupert, my assistant, was squat and chubby with a thick black walrus moustache, and dark laughing eyes. He had the reputation of being the laziest researcher in the whole University. Isidore, our intern, was thin, sickly looking, and as quiet as a mouse. I suspected he didn’t have enough to eat and always made sure there were plenty of biscuits in our tin box.

Good morning, Professor, said Ferdal. Have you seen the news?

Good morning, gentlemen. No, what is going on?

Rupert put his umbrella next to the door and went to hook his coat and hat.

Tahar Ruslan has died. Apparently, there was an explosion and a fire at his mansion yesterday.

For a few heartbeats, I was speechless. I must admit, I liked the man. He was charismatic and handsome, the darling of the press and high society. After the loss of their last colonies, the Deshwans needed someone like him to remind them of their past grandeur. When he was not exploring some distant land, Ruslan was climbing some impossibly tall mountain to measure atmospheric pressure or tinkering in his lab to produce a telescope to study the craters of the Mother Moon. His chief ambition was to be the first to get industrial use out of magic. Unfortunately, the modern rules of supply and demand had trouble cohabiting with its First Law—the one that said that each spell had a price, and only one. No rebates, no wholesale rates, and certainly no futures speculation. No one, claimed the Ancients, not even Ori, the Cheating God Himself, could get around it.

But we were in modern times. We would find a way.

What happened? I finally asked.

One of his experiments has gone wrong, apparently.

I suppose this is the risk of the business, commented Ferdal while switching on the tea infuser.

Did anyone else die? What was he experimenting with?

They don’t say in the papers. What a glorious death for an inventor! Don’t you think, Professor?

I personally thought glory for an inventor was having properly working inventions, but I had always lacked Deshwan exalted sensibilities. So, I sighed.

Indeed. But it is a big loss for all of us. For science and progress. He had so many ideas yet to develop.

Rupert nodded. Especially for us. I don’t see who will manage to design a scaphoid prism now.

I just received a note from him this morning about a research project.

What sort of project?

He did not mention. By the Heptagon, he must have written it shortly before this accident!

No more funding, then, commented Ferdal while taking out mismatched mugs from the cupboard.

I started to set up my equipment, still shocked.

Well, we have a special grant from the Occult Science Institute, for the joint project with that Meralese institute. It should be unlocked with the arrival of Doctor Dian in a week or two and would last for a few months. Then, I’ll have to find some other funding in Isria. They have wealthy patrons and a few industrialists in attendance. Magic is a big thing there. I’ll have to find a way to entice them.

What do you mean? asked Rupert.

I received an invitation to the International Congress of Experimental Magic.

Seven Hells!

My assistant stared at me with wide eyes, not trying to hide his amazement. It was always nice to see one’s merits fully appreciated. I didn’t have time to make a spiritual comment because, at that moment, an impatient wave of Power crossed my perception. If it had been a sound, it would have had the imperious tone of a cat crying out for food. The moonflowers were calling for water. Since I had started studying them, I had discovered they were perfectly capable of communicating through Power when they felt the need. They had already explained very clearly to me that their favorite spot was the third shelf across the window, next to the resonator.

Yes, I could perceive magic as clearly as if it were a sound. I was worse than a witch—a shaman.

This was a rare and poisoned gift. Some spoke of heredity, others of horoscope, and others of plain bad luck. Had I lived five hundred years before, I could have become an adviser to a king, or the high priestess of some god. But I was born in this century of steel, coal and worship of the Way. In my native Gandarah, I could no longer be secretly assassinated by the Guardians. I could only be publicly stoned after a formal trial with twelve jurors and a lawyer. That was democracy for you. In Branes, my adopted city, the rules were more humane: I just had to register with both the Quorum and the police and expect a visit from them after every bizarre incident. With the elections looming, the Heritage Party was advising to lobotomize or exterminate us in order to improve the country’s moral wellbeing.

Opening labs to study magic while pursuing those who perceived it was contradictory, to say the least, but the human mind has never been short of paradoxes. This partly explained why our Northern countries were so far behind in this field compared to our Southern neighbors. This situation regularly raised heated discussions during lunch breaks at the canteen, but did not lead us any further. As for me, I had not told anyone of my gift. I had more than enough problems.

I was holding the pot under the tap when the door creaked, letting in Miss Jandreth, the Dean’s secretary. She was an old maid, unhappy with her situation, and she politely hated me. I was a woman, a Gandaran with the typical look: auburn hair, green eyes, and pale freckled skin. To have to defer to me while she, a Deshwan from a good family, was confined to menial tasks was almost beyond her ability.

Good morning, Professor Imlay, she said in her clipped tone.

Good morning, Miss Jandreth.

Professor Uriel would like to speak to you immediately, if you please.

I hid a frown of annoyance. I was not going to start working as soon as I had planned. But I had to inform him of my trip to Congress. The Dean was a specialist in physics and hardly considered magic a science, but he would hate the idea that I was invited instead of one of his friends. I was in for an unpleasant discussion.

Of course, I said, putting the pot of moonflowers on the bench. Do you know what it is about?

She gave me a quick glance before settling her eyes on the flowers.

No, but there is a... lictor with him.

Isidore dropped his jaw. Ferdal put down the mug he was filling with tea. Rupert froze, his match halfway to his pipe. Nobody liked a visit from one of the Quorum agents. I slowly wiped my hands to give me time to compose myself. Like anyone who grew up in Gandarah, I had an instinctive aversion to law enforcement officials. Worse, magic law enforcement officials. But I quickly got a grip on my fear. The lictors never paid me any attention. I was a bland bespectacled researcher in fundamental magic. Maybe the visit had something to do with Nick or Ruslan’s deaths.

I followed Miss Jandreth to the dean’s office. She opened the door and stepped back to let me in. Professor Uriel rose from behind his desk with a gloomy look. Sitting on a chair in front of him was a tall redhead in her early thirties. She was wearing a man’s suit, complete with trousers, over a shirt with the first two buttons undone. In her hand, she was holding a cigar, and around her neck hung the Quorum’s crystal heptagon. As for the dean, he looked embarrassed as he spoke:

Good morning, Adrienne. May I introduce you to Lictress Artemisia Watts?

It took me all my good education not to stare open-mouthed. A woman lictor was a first. Of course, in the old days, they had lictresses, warrioresses, priestesses... The country was run by women. But all that was forgotten after the conquest by the worshippers of the Way. On the Northern Continent, women have lived in soft servitude for the last four centuries. For the Quorum to accept one, something terrible must have happened.

She held my gaze, as if she could read my thoughts. Finally, I managed a smile. How do you do, Lictress Watts?

She flashed me a carnivorous grin. How do you do, Professor Imlay?

Lictress Watts has some questions for you, said the Dean. Concerning Nicephorus.

I frowned. Someone was asking about him right outside the university building as I was coming in this morning. What’s going on?

Who was it? cut in the lictress.

I do not know. Some Mister, um, Jal or Jol, from a Rexal company...

She lifted a brow. "The Rexal Company?"

What are you talking about—

I cut myself off abruptly as my eyes fell on the small stove in the corner. The name was written on its rim inside an intricate logo. Rexal was an industrial empire: coal, steel, cannons... The lictress made an impatient gesture.

I suppose. Is there another one?

At that moment, Miss Jandreth came in holding a tea tray, and set it on the desk. I just had a mug, but for the sake of politeness and to give myself some time to calm down, I sat in the other chair, picked up a cup, and took a few sips. The lictress waved her cigar with impatience.

Your colleague has presumably died with Tahar Ruslan in yesterday’s explosion. We have reasons to think they were doing unsanctioned research. With the elections coming, I don’t need to tell you, Professor, that this is a highly sensitive topic. What do you know about Doctor Vatel’s activities?

I managed to set down the cup without dropping it onto the floor, then just sat there, numb. After all, Nick was one of the two people I called friends—the other being Roxane. Like me, he did not belong to that bourgeois elite where academics came from. Our classmates laughed at his starved looks and patched-up clothes, and if my sharp tongue could nail down any fool, Nick merely endured the insults. Even though we had very different temperaments, our situation brought us together. However, his recklessness and his addictions weighed on our relationships. Experimenting under the influence of a drug is a dangerous business. I had always expected him to die a premature death. But it was still too soon for me.

I do not know how long I had been sitting there with tears streaming down my cheeks. Finally, I fished a handkerchief from a pocket, dabbed my eyes, and blew my nose. I had never been able to cry elegantly, like the heroine of a dime novel.

The voice of the lictress came to me from afar, pouring on my mind, as cold as melting snow: What was his current topic of research, Professor?

Now you know why the lictors were not particularly popular. I blew my nose again.

"Well, the same as everybody here, I suppose! He was studying the diffraction of Power waves through tanalite crystals."

What trispectral range was he using?

I don't know, but we don’t have anything over six hundred ethers here.

She waved her cigar again. Has he ever spoken about undeclared research?

Of course not! He was not stupid!

I was starting to feel angry. The discussion reminded me of others, with the Guardians. Just like with the Guardians, it was a bad idea to upset a lictor, especially in my position. But Artemisia Watts didn’t bother to get upset.

When did you see him last?

On Friday. I left him my paper to review.

Hmm, I see. Don’t cry, Professor. He was a rogue. Sooner or later, he could have put all of you in a dangerous position.

I looked at the dean, but he was scrutinizing a blank sheet of paper on his desk. Silence stretched between us for a few heartbeats. The lictress dropped the ash from her cigar in her saucer.

Have a good day, Professor Imlay. Professor Uriel...

She stood abruptly and walked toward the door. The sound of her steps echoed in the corridor. There was another moment of silence. Finally, the dean nervously reached for his cigar box.

Friendly as usual, I grumbled. Anger had washed out part of the pain.

Of course. But she is partly right, you know. We do not need a scandal at the university just before the elections. I already have second thoughts about inviting that Meralese wizard.

I sighed. We have already talked about that. People have moved on since the Mechanical Wars. Whatever the next government, they will still need the Southerner’s expertise.

At the time when Power existed, the countries of the Southern Continent, Meral included, had dominated the Northern Continent thanks to their mastery of its properties. Its disappearance had led to their decadence, while the Northern Continent discovered coal and steam to become the master. But with the return of magic, things could revert to the old ways. Deep in their libraries, their archives, their crypts, and their tombs, slept a priceless collection of books on occult science. When it came to magic, the Southerners were getting a head start. We needed their knowledge. They needed our money... for now. The dean had negotiated this exchange program more than a year before. This was how Hamilcar Dian, a Meralese specialist in transformative spells, had been invited to spend a few months in my lab.

This was the result of careful calculations, both for the Dean and me. If that collaboration went wrong for any reason, I, the uncouth foreign woman, would be to blame. If things went well, he and I would both take credit for the success. I had already been corresponding with Dr. Dian for some time. He sounded like an articulate researcher and a sensible man, able to separate fact from belief. Therefore, I was quite optimistic.

The dean gave me a wry look.

Let’s hope our future rulers see it that way. But magic will still be a sensitive topic. Especially if the Heritage Party wins, as our funding will be drastically reduced.

Then it is really lucky that I have been invited to the International Congress of Experimental Magic. Maybe I’ll get some money out of it.

He stared at me just like Rupert earlier. If it were not for Nick’s death, I would have found it comical.

By the Heptagon! Nobody else has received an invitation. Not Jardel, nor Sardon! Er...

I let out a deep mental sigh as I expected what was coming. He assumed his most professorial tone.

I am worried to see you travel to that congress without a chaperone. I know you hate traveling, and Isria is a... dangerous place. Even more so for a woman.

I pushed my glasses up my nose.

I am very touched by your concerns. Especially after I had to slap Professor Homer, who was trying to grab my skirts in front of you. But as you have pointed out many times behind my back, I am old and as ugly as a cabbage stew. Not a male will notice my existence. According to the newspapers, this town is teeming with women much prettier and younger than me.

He held on.

With these Southerners, you never know. The reputation of the university is at stake. You could give your notes to Jardel, who will do the presentation for you, and—

Here we were.

"To gain notoriety with my works? Do you think I am stupid, by any chance? If this is such an ethical problem for you, I will attend the congress privately. There will be no researcher representing the university. Anyway, your Jardel barely understands the vernacular. He will make a fool of himself at the first question."

The Dean gave a soul-breaking sigh. He couldn’t afford to have no representative. It would be a terrible humiliation and weigh heavily on him when he would ask for the renewal of his tenure the following year. He didn’t even know who the new science minister would be. So, I only made a modest smile of satisfaction when he growled, Please be careful. I stood up and was about to walk towards the door, when he added, By the way, could you fill in for me at the opening night of an exhibition, on the Second Day of the Martyrs?

To what do I owe such an honor?

He did not bother with excuses.

I am invited to a dinner at the Minister’s with Jardel and neither Gauthar nor Saurdon are available. But several exhibitors have given us well-paid orders, and they may give us more... if they have not killed each other before then.

What do you mean?

He wiped his forehead. They are a bunch of archaeologists excavating the Ruins of Gandarah. They get along like cats and dogs. Each one accuses the others of spying on him or stealing his most important discoveries... Vrangel and Medlock nearly had a fight in front of my office!

I was not aware of such rude behavior in the hushed world of archaeology. I congratulated myself once again for choosing fundamental research, a quiet occupation that did not bring money or conflicts. Only glory.

... Florizel will be there, but someone more senior would be better, concluded my beloved boss.

It would be my pleasure.

The dean only delegated the honor of representing the university to my humble self when he had no choice. A woman was giving a poor image of the institution. That meant he didn’t want to deal with those archaeologists. Well, I would not pass up such a windfall. He picked up a card from his desk and handed it to me. I took it with a slight smile and glanced at it: under a phoenix rising from its ashes, the emblem of the Occult Sciences Institute, was written:

Invitation for two people to the opening night of the exhibition of artifacts excavated in sectors XVII, XVIII, and XIX of Gandarah by Messrs. de Garvel, Vrangel and Medlock on the Second Day of the Martyrs at eight o’clock. Evening dress is required.

My sense of triumph vanished, and I winced inwardly: Gandaran artifacts. The place was already full of them, and they always brought back memories of my childhood. I could have done without such a display. But I could not let this opportunity slip away. Sometimes I hate this job.

Quite shaken, I went to the small garden at the back of the university, between the biology and chemistry buildings. At that hour, it was empty, cold, and damp. I sat at the foot of the statue of Nature removing her veils before Science and retrieved the hip flask of brandy I used to hide in a pocket of my skirt. I took a long swig to recover my nerves. As usual, I picked up the waves of Power rising from the other side of the wall, where stood the Four Winds bookshop. Perhaps a wizard with a talisman was buried under the foundations. I weaved the waves to lift a dead leaf. Sometimes I made a little spell to relieve my nerves. It was almost a physical need. I had never dared anything more complex. I didn’t know how to anyway. Wielding large amounts of Power without training exposed you to insanity and death. At least, that was the belief.

I hated to admit it, but the lictress was quite right. Nick’s death was not unexpected. There was nothing I could do about it, I concluded after emptying the flask. I knew only two ways to deal with sorrow. Alcohol and work. I choose the latter. After the discussion I had with the dean, I needed to make a really outstanding presentation.

I came back to the Miscellaneous Sciences Building and headed to the Thaumaturgical Paleography lab, to borrow a dictionary of vernacular. As I walked down the hall, over the background noise, I thought I perceived a familiar aura of Power. I knocked and opened the door.

Hello everyone, could I borrow your...

My voice became a croak in my throat as the memory hit me with the power of a locomotive. The aura. The ring. I stepped mechanically into the room, suddenly plunging into the mists of the past. Florizel looked up from the microscope with which he was examining it. Yes. It was the ring. A shimmering opal in the shape of a left hand, palm forward, mounted on a thick band of solid gold. Yartegian, Seventh Dynasty. My father had found it in the Ruins and brought it home when I was four. This was how my troubles began. I had heard the jewel sing its inaudible tune of Power. I walked over, mesmerized. My parents realized I had the gift. Children like me weren’t meant to exist for the Guardians of the Way, nor were magical artifacts. My parents hastened to hide the ring. They pretended I was sick and locked me at home for months, waiting for me to forget. But I never forgot. I just learned to shut up. Later, at Branes, my father sold it to pay for my education. I never thought I would see it again...

Professor? Is something wrong? asked Florizel.

He put his glasses back on and stared at me. I started. He must not have heard about Nick’s death, and I didn’t feel like talking about it.

Oh, nothing... Yesterday’s dinner didn’t agree with me. But you have a very pretty ring.

Ah, women and jewelry! Agathon Vrangel commissioned us to analyze it.

Who?

Researchers in thaumaturgical